


Shake my ash to the wind

by rufflefeather



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Rimming, mild panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing Stiles is like a breeze through an open window that chases away a smell of fire that never leaves. The first time he tastes surprised and says, <i>Holy shit</i> while his fingers find lips that probably sting a little from Derek’s stubble. It makes Derek laugh and Stiles’ eyes go wide and pleased as if that’s a bigger surprise than the kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shake my ash to the wind

**Author's Note:**

> First porniness for this pairing! This always makes me nervous omg. There is a brief moment where Stiles has a mild panic attack.
> 
> Thank you hardticket for the beta!
> 
> Please go leave lots of love [here at this Derek/Stiles vid to the song Lover's Eyes](www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fBdG5IdujA) by Onashippunintended.
> 
> Now with [podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/697712) by the amazing Brunie! Go, go listen to her gorgeous voice and the way she tells the story so beautifully.

Kissing Stiles is like a breeze through an open window that chases away a smell of fire that never leaves. The first time he tastes surprised and says, _Holy shit_ while his fingers find lips that probably sting a little from Derek’s stubble. It makes Derek laugh and Stiles’ eyes go wide and pleased as if that’s a bigger surprise than the kiss. 

Nearly six months later Stiles is shuddering with nerves and no matter how long Derek kisses him and touches him and whispers, _it’s all right_ , he doesn’t stop.

“Stiles,” Derek says, trying hard not to sigh as he reaches for his t-shirt, “I’m not doing this while you’re scared out of your mind.”

“I’m not scared,” Stiles says, fast and high, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt so he can’t pull it back over his head. The lie is so loud, Stiles winces. “I mean, I am, clearly. But I want this.” He looks down and worries his lip with his teeth. “So bad.”

Derek takes hold of Stiles’ wrists through the t-shirt, and says, “You know it doesn’t matter to me if we don’t. Stiles,” he waits until he looks up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Stiles says but he looks miserable. “I know.”

“C’mere.” Derek pulls him closer, eases down onto the bed with Stiles on top of him and kisses him and urges him on with his hands on Stiles’ hips until Stiles comes in his jeans.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” Stiles mumbles against Derek’s neck, flushes so dark Derek can feel the heat of it bleed into his skin.

“It’s not,” Derek tells him, petting his hair and breathing deeply. “It’s good.”

It’s maybe a week or two after, that Derek wakes up sweat-soaked and heart beating out a gallop in his chest. He’s half wolfed-out and crouched to defend when he realizes the panic isn’t his own. Beside him, Stiles is lying very still, both hands pulled into fists and pressed against his sternum. His eyes are wide open and all he’s doing is breathe in and in and in. 

“Stiles,” Derek says. The wolf in him wants to crowd, wants to press close, wants to sniff and lick and soothe but Derek doesn’t let him.

“I’m,” Stiles says, sucking in air. “Sorry. Happens. Sometimes.”

“Okay,” Derek says because talking makes it worse. He settles against the headboard and pulls Stiles into his lap, back to chest, breathing deep and calm against him. He lets his hands trace Stiles’ arms even though he’s dying to just touch him all over, to appease the wolf that he is whole and unharmed. When the harsh breaths ease, he allows himself, just a little. He noses Stiles’ hair, trails fingertips over his neck and shoulder. He presses flat palms against Stiles’ chest. 

“Derek,” Stiles says, his head falling back onto Derek’s shoulder, exposing his throat. He can see that Stiles is hard underneath his pajamas but he doesn’t know if it’s the aftermath of the panic attack or not, so he eases them down until they’re both on their sides, Derek running his hand through Stiles’ hair. His back feels wet with cooling sweat but his heartbeat is nearly normal, so he asks,

“Will you tell me about it, some time?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says and then after a long silence, “I’m sorry I woke you, I was trying to be quiet.”

Derek can’t speak, at first, the words sinking into him and tying knots in his lungs, so he just holds on tighter. _Never,_ he says later, _never apologize for something like that_. But Stiles doesn’t hear him, is already out cold. 

“You’re still here,” Stiles says the next morning. He rubs his face into his pillow, wiping away the last tendrils of sleep. It looks like he’s trying hard to stop the pleased smile from taking hold, but one side of his mouth curls up anyway, in a lopsided grin.

“Of course I am,” Derek tells him, putting his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and shaking him gently. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He lets his hand creep up and drag through Stiles’ hair. It’s always so ridiculously soft, it makes the wolf in him yearn for dens and Pack, for pups with the same soft fur. That won’t happen, obviously, but it’s an ache Derek knows will never go away. He doesn’t want it to anyway.

“I don’t know,” Stiles mumbles. He’s hiding his face in the crook of his arm and Derek can smell the unease on him. “I thought you’d––“ The words stop high in his throat, Derek can hear it by the way his breath catches and heartbeat picks up. Stiles can’t actually say it, but Derek knows how to listen. He rolls over from his side, to half cover Stiles’ back. Trails a hand over Stiles’ waist while he mouths at the skin between his shoulder blades. Stiles remains tense, like he can’t let go but he can’t talk about it either, so Derek says nothing, just presses against Stiles’ hip to show him just how much he still wants him. Nothing’s changed.

Stiles’ intake of breath is like oil on a fire and Derek feels it twist his insides. It pushes the air out of his lungs and for one brief moment he lets himself go. He braces himself over Stiles, hands on either side of his shoulders, pressing his face into his neck and grinding down his hips.

“Oh,” Stiles says and Derek rolls away, fighting the urge to take and hold and _claim_. Stiles’ heartbeat is like a fragile bird, wings beating against a cage it’s trying to escape. He chances a glance at Derek. His eyelids are heavy and his face is pink just above his jaws. He carefully inches closer, hides his face against Derek’s shoulder as he says, “Can I, um, touch you?”

“Yes,” Derek says, without hesitation. He knows what this is like and it’s easier to do than be done to, that first time. So he says again, “Yes,” and then turns his head to catch Stiles’ forehead with his lips. “Please.”

Stiles hardly moves, just presses his palm just above Derek’s heart. He trails the dips and rises of Derek’s body, sucks in a breath when an accidental brush causes Derek’s nipple to pebble. He takes his time and Derek says nothing about his trembling fingers, just closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing because he _wants_ and he _wants_ and he _wants_. 

When he trails over Derek’s navel, he begins to hesitate. His breathing becomes shallow and his eyes keep moving from Derek’s mouth to his chest and down. The soft touches make the muscles beneath Derek’s skin jump, and he has to bite down on a groan. Eventually Stiles dares lower, fingertips dipping carefully beneath the waistband of Derek’s sweatpants. He’s wearing nothing underneath and Derek can tell Stiles touched the head of his cock without meaning to. He’s about to flinch away, but Derek grabs his wrist and presses his hand against him, on top of his pants.

“Feel how much I want you, Stiles. Feel it.”

“I am,” Stiles says, hiding his face again. His hand is completely still but he’s not trying to pull away so Derek lets go. Pulls him in for a kiss instead. Stiles knows how to do that, now, so he does it with abandon. 

Derek moans, “Stiles,” desperate and so turned on he can’t help himself.

“Yeah,” Stiles says and Derek can feel the shift in him, as if that somehow made everything clear. He’s still nervous when he dips his hand in Derek’s pants, but he reeks of arousal now. “Oh my god,” he whispers, when he takes hold of Derek. “Oh my _god_.”

His touch is far too light and far too slow and still Derek is going to go off within minutes. It has never felt like this before, like he’s being given something so precious he feels he has to keep still or it’ll break. Stiles shifts up on his elbow and kisses Derek again and Derek holds on to his biceps, pants in his mouth. “Stiles,” he says again, because he can’t hold on, he needs to come. 

Stiles presses kisses against Derek’s throat, and he probably doesn’t know what that means, just kisses because it’s a path to his destination but it makes the wolf shudder with surrender. Derek arches in Stiles’ hand, whose fist tightens with a jerk. 

“Derek,” Stiles says, looking up at him from where he’s poised above Derek’s heart, “holy shit are you going to come?”

“Yes,” Derek grits out, because the touch is still not hard enough to make it happen but he doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to pressure. He will, later. Some other day, when this doesn’t make Stiles tremble with shyness anymore, the wolf will claim back his dominance.

“Oh,” Stiles breathes and he tightens his hand, begins to stroke Derek harder, running his thumb through the wetness and slicking his way down. “Derek,” he mumbles, face pressed in the dip of Derek’s shoulder. His hips are pushing up involuntarily and Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ ass, driving him down against Derek’s leg harder. 

“Stiles,” Derek warns, “I’m gonna come.”

And then Stiles bites down on Derek’s neck and it _still_ comes as a surprise when the orgasm hits, making him curl in on himself, taking Stiles with him, who is, again, coming in his pants. 

Stiles clings to his shoulders as they calm down, and Derek clings back, just a little. No one’s ever done that to him before, no one has ever dared. He doubts Stiles even realizes what he’s done, but if feels right, somehow, that Derek yielded to Stiles before claiming an innocence from him he’ll never get back. 

Stiles pulls his hand out of Derek’s pants and pulls a face. “Gross,” he says.

“No it’s not,” Derek tells him and Stiles watches with a mixture of horror and fascination as Derek takes his time to lick him clean. 

They almost die. All of them. Stiles is only alive because Derek covers him from the worst of the wolfsbane infused shrapnel. His left arm will carry faint scars for years. Scars that will remind Derek of just how much he’s willing to give up for Stiles. 

Stiles and Dr Deaton spend hours removing bits of metal and pressing wolfsbane ash into wounds. Afterwards Stiles cries and cries while trying to rip the clothes off Derek’s body.

Rocking him gently, Derek just holds him and says, “Not like this, Stiles. Not like this.”

The first time he gets Stiles off with intention, it’s with his mouth. 

They’re in the car, it’s dark and crickets sing to the beginning of summer. “Why me,” Stiles asks suddenly, voice small and eyes on his fingers nervously plucking at the wristband of Derek’s watch where it rests against Stiles’ thigh. He does that, when they’re alone. He doesn’t even know it, just touches and worries at Derek in some way as if he needs to reassure himself he’s really there. “I don’t understand.”

Derek’s hand tightens on Stiles’ knee, maybe a little too hard because he flinches, but Derek can’t help himself. It makes him want to roar with anger, the way Stiles sees himself, or doesn’t see, more accurately. It makes him want to rip right through time to find out who did this to him. He doesn’t say anything, just snaps his seatbelt off and bites at Stiles’ mouth, mouths down his throat where the flesh is soft and fragrant. He unbuttons Stiles’ jeans with one hand and sucks him down, already hard and leaking even though Derek started this less than thirty seconds ago. He wants to apologize because this isn’t the way he should be doing this, but he can’t because Stiles dick is nudging the back of his throat. So he just sucks and sucks like he can draw out all the years of building up those layers of self-doubt, until Stiles spurts hot and sticky in his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, hands frantic in Derek’s hair, “I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you, I didn’t mean to but that was so good and I couldn’t––“ 

“I wanted it,” Derek growls and he’s pulling Stiles into his lap, kissing him deep and filthy, knowing Stiles can taste himself. The steering wheel has to be painful as it digs in his back while Derek grinds against him, pushing him down as he rises up, breathing hard in each other’s mouths until Derek throws back his head and shouts as he comes. 

“Shit,” Stiles says afterwards, still in Derek’s lap and they’re both sweaty. The car reeks of sex. “Some day I’d like to actually get to enjoy this instead of going off like a rocket whenever you just look at me right.”

Stiles has his head buried against Derek’s shoulder so he allows himself to grin, pleased as punch, his eyes glowing red with possession when he catches his own gaze in the rearview mirror. _Mine_ , he thinks, _mine_. “You will,” he says instead, “I’ll show you how.”

He does, not much later, when he takes Stiles to his house, to the renovated part with the mattress on the ground and the cushions everywhere. Stiles is still lax from his orgasm earlier, so Derek gets to undress him and Stiles only blushes a little.

“Are we doing this?” Stiles asks.

“Only what you want,” Derek says. He’s so young. So young. Derek would feel a mixture of guilt and depravity if this wasn’t forever, for him. He knows it might not be, for Stiles. It shouldn’t be. He’s a teenager and he has no wolf demanding loyalty and it’ll crumple the last remaining charred corner of Derek’s soul to dust when he goes, but he doesn’t care. He’s learnt to live in the now, because the future is never what you expect, and never what you want. 

“Maybe I want _it_ ,” Stiles says, even though the words make his cheeks blotch red. He wants to cover his naked skin, Derek can tell, but he doesn’t. He pushes the jacket off Derek’s shoulders instead, tugs at the hem of his shirt.

“You do now,” Derek says, stripping off his clothes without ceremony, like this is something they do every day. He hopes they will, that there will be days they do this because it’s theirs. “But what about tomorrow?”

“I won’t hate you for taking this from me,” Stiles tells him, pulling him down and kissing his cheek, chastely. “I want you to have it.”

Derek doesn’t fuck him, but he does touch him everywhere. He kisses his mouth and his chest and his balls. He licks his neck and his belly and his back. He takes him in his mouth but eases off when Stiles’ balls contract. He puts Stiles on his stomach and circles his hole with his thumb. It makes Stiles whine, high in his throat and Derek pulls him up on all fours, fisting his cock while he slides his own between Stiles’ ass cheeks until they both come, Stiles loud and desperate, Derek quiet but no less hungry for it. And then they sleep and do it all over again the next night. 

Derek’s bed smells of Stiles and for the first time it feels like home. 

“I’m scared,” Stiles confesses, one morning. Derek’s plastered all over his back, lazily rubbing his dick against that sweet spot behind Stiles’ balls. 

“M’not gonna do anything,” Derek mumbles into his shoulder. He likes this, the lazy feel of a morning where the frantic chase of a day hasn’t yet begun.

“That’s not what I mean,” Stiles says and he buries his face in his arms. Derek lifts up a little and looks at him because Stiles hasn’t done that in a while. He’s about to ask what he does mean, when Stiles goes on. “I’m afraid this won’t last. That you, that you’ll get bored,” Derek doesn’t realize he’s growling softly until Stiles hurries on, “or get hurt.” His heart begins to race and Derek automatically begins to scratch his scalp with blunt nails to calm him down. “With your life, with _our_ life, you could, Derek,” and here he looks up, over his shoulder. His eyes are huge and liquid like caramel. “You could die.”

“Stiles,” Derek whines, pressing his face into the dip of his shoulder. He knows exactly, _exactly_ what Stiles means. Stiles isn’t a werewolf, Stiles’s veins bleed dry when they’re opened. His skin scars when it’s cut and his innards rip when they’re pierced by a bullet. There’s no wolf in him who tears through injury until it’s gone. There’s only Stiles who takes care of everyone but himself. Who thinks he’s going to lose Derek to a battle that’d kill Stiles ten times over. 

Derek wants to haul him away from the world. Wants to keep him safe in his den and never let him leave. His biggest fear is to lose, again, and it tastes like ash in his mouth. Stiles squirms and Derek realizes he’s holding on too tight. He takes his weight off and Stiles turns over, wraps his bare legs around Derek’s waist and kisses the taste away. Like he knows it’s there. 

The chill of the fall begins to creep through the roof and Derek should really get on that, if he’s going to stay here. “Is this okay?” Stiles asks, his hands on Derek’s ass, spreading him.

“Yeah, Stiles,” he says. He wants to laugh, but he’s loose and pliant because Stiles has been touching him all over for ages so it comes out as more of a content sigh. He did this to Stiles yesterday, who had loved it so much he insisted on trying. Derek doesn’t mind. Not when Stiles submits when it matters. Power is a balance, after all. And then Stiles licks carefully over his hole, as if it’s a first taste of an ice cream, and Derek grunts, pushing into the pillow underneath his hips, the hunger flaring through him, up his legs and through his stomach.

“Oh,” Stiles says and the puff of breath is cool, “it’s just you. It just tastes like you, only more and it’s soft, I didn’t think it would be so soft.” He carefully touches a fingertip against the tight muscle. “I was a bit embarrassed when you did it last night but this is––“

“Stiles,” Derek growls at him, “stop talking.” 

He doesn’t say that often, not anymore because he knows Stiles talks to make room in his head for other things.

“Right,” Stiles says and then he’s pressing his tongue against Derek again, thick and wet and hot, and Derek is fisting the sheets, because he wants to push back against Stiles’ mouth so bad, like a bitch in heat, it makes his cheeks burn. He’s about to ask for more, bites at his own lips so he can’t but it’s like Stiles knows. He works his tongue inside, then pulls abruptly away and returns a second later with a spit-slick finger. “Tell me,” he says timidly, “if this is not––“

“It is,” Derek says, “it is.” He wants to lift his hips and jerk off but he doesn’t. Instead he says, _faster_ and _harder_ and _more_ until he comes from nothing but Stiles’ fingers and tongue. 

He’s a sweaty mess afterwards but he doesn’t care, because Stiles is straddling his chest and looking so pleased with himself he’s shining. “Wow,” he keeps saying. “That was, wow. I did that. _Me_. Derek, I––“

 _––love you_ Derek thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Instead he reaches up and drags Stiles down, kissing him and commanding him to make himself come all over Derek’s chest. 

“I’m ready,” Stiles says, nearly a year after that first kiss that made Derek laugh. Derek jerks the wheel so hard they nearly end up on the other lane. He rights the car and just stares ahead.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks. It’s never been like this. Stiles has often asked, _are you going to_ like he’d be okay with it if Derek did, but he’s never said––

“I want you to.” He reaches out and puts his hand on Derek’s knee, squeezing lightly. “I want you. If you do too.”

_Always._

Derek takes Stiles to bed and makes him come in his mouth, so he’s nice and relaxed. Derek fingers him, then, until there’s lube dripping down his wrist. “Come on,” Stiles whines. He’s kneeling on the bed, body slumped forward and face smushed into the pillows. He’s been begging for at least ten minutes now and Derek wonders if he’s not being cruel. But no, he wants this to be good, he wants Stiles to want more. 

They’re both shaking by the time Derek lines up, _––It’s easier if you lie on your stomach. –– But I want to see you,––_ and Derek expects Stiles to look away when he pushes in, just the tip. He doesn’t, he just looks and looks until Derek feels like he’s drowning.

“Okay?” he asks through gritted teeth because instinct tells him to take, to claim, to _mount_ , because finally, _finally,_.

Stiles winces a bit, but says, “Yeah. It burns a bit, but it’s good, I’m good.”

“Tell me if you’re not,” Derek manages, and he’s in deep enough that he can support his weight on his arms now, bracing himself over Stiles. He’s so tight it makes him _ache_. Derek doesn’t realize he has closed his eyes until Stiles cups his face. His eyes are smiling, and, fondly, he says,

“I will. But I’m fine. I’m always fine when I’m with you.”

And just like that, Derek slides in all the way, a deep rumble vibrating through his chest.

“ _Oooooh_ ,” Stiles goes, back arching off the bed, his legs tightening around Derek so he’s pushed in even deeper. Stiles’ hard-on had gone down a bit but it’s completely back, dripping pre-come into his navel.

“Stiles,” Derek hisses, “I need to –– are you –– can I––”

“Yes, yes, Derek, anything, please, anything,” Stiles begs and Derek tries to keep control but he completely loses himself. He’s not rough, Stiles isn’t the kind he needs to be rough with, but he moves and he pushes and he pulls, he holds on and on and on, dropping to his elbows so Stiles can kiss him whenever he pleases. He’s moaning softly, each sound breaking off a bit with every one of Derek’s thrusts and Derek thinks it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. 

The air begins to smell sweet and a little bit salty and Derek thinks it’s the scent of his broken heart shattering and another one growing in place. He doesn’t know he’s talking until Stiles is answering.

“Yes,” he’s saying, voice breaking like this is something more for him too. And of course it is, of course. Stiles, who trusts Derek implicitly, who taught Derek to trust again in turn. Stiles, who mends people just by being near them, who gives and hardly ever takes, who has lost so much and still gives all he has, to Derek. “Yes,” he’s saying, “I’m yours, I’m yours, never anyone else’s.”

_Tell me you’re mine._

Derek angles to find that bundle of nerves, knows he’s found it when Stiles shouts –– he loves it when Stiles shouts, it doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it’s bliss –– and takes Stiles’ cock in hand. 

Stiles is completely lost, his eyes fluttering behind his eyelids, hoarse panting breaths being pushed out of him to Derek’s rhythm. His head is tilted back on the bed and his throat is bared, so Derek sucks and bites at it and the wolf within him howls. He fucks Stiles through his orgasm and needs every ounce of self control to not take what he needs too. 

“You didn’t come,” Stiles says when his breathing evens.

“No,” Derek grits out and he allows his eyes to bleed red to take some of the edge off. Stiles doesn’t look afraid at all, just says, “Tell me what you need,” and Derek gently pulls out, his legs shaking violently.

“Roll over.”

Stiles does, without asking questions and Derek pushes back into him, moaning. He’s so hot and so wet and makes a surprised little noise when Derek pushes his legs together.

“I won’t hurt you like this,” Derek says, and begins to move again. He doesn’t hold back, he takes what he needs and bites down on his own arm, makes it bleed when the pleasure hits him like a hurricane. He keeps rolling his hips, wanting to draw it out as long as he can until he so sensitive it makes his entire body shudder. 

“Oh my god,” he can hear Stiles say through the fog in his brain. “Oh my fucking god.”

“Did I hurt you?” Derek mumbles but Stiles shakes his head.

“No, that was, that was amazing. Derek, please.” 

Derek doesn’t immediately gets what he wants until he opens his eyes and sees Stiles look at him. He pulls out with a wince from both of them and rolls off and Stiles is on him immediately, kissing his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth.

“I want this forever,” Stiles says, as if he knows that’s the question Derek wants to ask most but never will. Derek says nothing, just smiles because he can’t help it and Stiles beams at him, knowing exactly what that means.

Derek can’t promise forever, not with hunters out there and Kanima, and god knows what. But he can promise that there will never be anyone else. Stiles is his home, he thinks, breathing in deeply and the last of the smoke leaves his nostrils.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [Lover's Eyes](www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fBdG5IdujA) by Mumford and Sons (which is such a Derek song. If someone makes a Derek vid to that, I will write them all the porn in the world. Or angst. Derek angst. There can never be enough Derek angst.)


End file.
